


Life in a Glass House

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: Following a whirlwind summer romance, Karma and Amy return to Hester for their final year of high school. Wanting to protect their new relationship, they decide to keep it a secret from everyone they know, unaware of what that choice may cost them.
  “You don’t know where the time has gone.”





	1. Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spasticandviolent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spasticandviolent/gifts).



> AU (ish). Follows canon, but changes some elements for the sake of the story. Takes place in a S4-type timeline, I’ve wanted to write this for a really long time, and I finally had the opportunity to do it. I could say more, but it would spoil the fun! All will become clear. Each chapter is a look into a brief but important moment in Karma and Amy’s experience. They’re inspired by [this](http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you) list of prompts integrated somewhere in the dialogue. It was a fun challenge to work with these and within a smaller word limit. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. Written for and prompts chosen by @spasticandviolent. Chapter prompt: _“_ _We’ll figure it out.”_ Title from the Radiohead song of the same name.

_"When they were together like that, they had been their own private universe,_  
_bounded just by themselves, a population of two. They were the world,_  
_and the world was them.”  
_ — Patrick Ness, _More Than This_.

***

Summer is over.

The realisation hits you too slowly and all at once, sitting in Amy’s still new, still shiny, blue Camry in the parking lot. Summer is over, and this is the first day of your senior year at Hester. This is the beginning and the end of everything. You’re a little too early, feeling strangely apprehensive despite the fact you’re now officially at the top of the Hester food chain. Amy’s quiet too, hands still on the wheel even though you’ve been parked up for a while.

You’re taking it as a fresh start, but really, she has nothing to worry about. She has this year all sewn up: AP classes, a long list of after school clubs she wants to join in addition to keeping up writing for the newspaper – you’ve finally persuaded her how much fun they can be. She’ll have AV and Yearbook, and you’ll have Drama Club and Choir – just don’t call it glee club – and whatever else Shane and Noah manage to rope you into. Honestly, you're both a college recruiter’s dream, and that dream feels a whole lot closer after going to Clement’s summer school. It was only for two weeks, sandwiched between desperately trying to keep your relationship with Felix going, a succession of crappy summer jobs until the lifeguarding started back up, and a horrible, messy breakup for Amy after Sabrina and her family left for LA. In the end, you and Felix called it quits too, knowing that long distance would never work once he went back to Chicago. After all that, New Orleans just seemed like a good idea. It wasn’t until you and Amy got there that you realised how badly you needed to get the fuck out of Austin.

It’s crazy to think that a year from now you’ll be roommates there with her in your freshman year, starting another slippery climb on an altogether different social ladder. It’s weird to get your head around. You don’t know where the time has gone. It feels like ten minutes ago when you were running out of school right into the heat of a sunny, May day with the whole summer stretched out in front of you, and countless ideas about how to spend it.

Almost all of them happened, but some of the best things, you never expected at all.

“I know you hate pretty much everyone we go to school with, but it’s really not that bad is it?”

Amy snorts derisively. “No, it’s not,” she glances over at you and smiles. “There are some rare exceptions to my ‘hate everyone’ rule.”

The way she’s looking at you kind of hurts.

“Good to know!” you deflect, blushing a little under her scrutiny.

You know she’s pretty much over high school and she’s basically here just to bank credits, graduate, and hang out with you, Lauren and Shane. Everyone and everything else is wallpaper. Invisible. Her mind is elsewhere. So is yours. It’s in New Orleans in that dorm room you shared with her, planning out the rest of your lives.

“Who said you were an exception?” she teases.

“Fuck you!” you exclaim, swatting at her.

“That’s the kind of winning charm that’ll get you that class president nomination!”

“Ha-ha,” you quip. “Really though, you think I should run?”

She groans. “Karm, we’ve been here like, ten minutes. Stop being so ambitious before midday.”

“Fine,” you pout. “Well, since I can’t be ambitious at least tell me I look good for our first day?”

“I can tell you you’re fishing for compliments.”

You laugh, shaking your head at her. Out of sheer habit, you check your reflection in her rearview mirror, angling it slightly to see. There’s no lipstick on your teeth, your skin is relatively clear, your hair is curled to perfection, and your outfit? Well, let’s just say you’re a little less boho and a little more chic these days, but Amy still seems to approve.

“Serious hair game. You’ll be the envy of every freshman girl in sight,” she answers finally, winding a fingertip around one of your curls.

“Cute or hot?” you venture, already half knowing the answer.

“Fifty-fifty split, I like it,” she nods. “Just the right mix of approachable girl next door and unattainable teen dream.”

“Mission accomplished, so worth getting up at six this morning,” you beam, and she rolls her eyes at you. “By the way, this,” you pause, indicating her outfit, “is _very_ Spencer Hastings-slash-Lois-Lane. It looks good on you.”

“I figured I’d at least look good enough to try and take the newspaper editor’s job off of Jess Di Marco.”

“Please,” you reply, elbowing her playfully, “you could do that in your sleep, what does she know?!”

“Might be a _little_ biased there, Karm.”

You’re not. At all. Jess is a smug, know-it-all bitch who thinks she owns the universe because her dad’s rich. She has about as much journalistic integrity as a spoon. The paper wouldn’t be shit without people like Amy and Vashti writing on it.

“No, I just have a more accurate perception of your obvious potential,” you counter, earnestly.

“Thanks Oprah,” she replies, with a wry smile in return.

She’ll never believe you. She never believed Cheryl – sorry, Miss Jacobs – the guidance counsellor, or any of the professors you met at Clement either. You guess you could say the same.

“I’m serious, learn to take a compliment.”

“Uh-huh, I know, my very own personal cheer squad.”

You’re both laughing then, and you fall against her, resting your head on her shoulder. Then, you realise something else. Something that’s far sadder than knowing summer – the best summer of your almost eighteen years of life – has ended. Once you get out of this car you’re leaving safety and a different kind of happiness behind with it. Once you go into school, you can’t be like this with her anymore.

Now Amy’s quietness makes a lot more sense.

“What are we going to do?” you ask, half talking to your lap because you _really_ don’t want to bring this up.

“Go into school, drag ourselves through another academically unchallenging day, survive questionable cafeteria food, and hope we’re not separated for too much of the day because our new schedules suck ass,” she offers, amused.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Still you don’t lift your head to look at her. You’re not sure you can.

“I know what you meant, Karma,” she replies, suddenly serious.

Your heart sinks. You want to go back to those days at Clement. You want to go back to the month that followed it where you alternated between lifeguarding with Shane and hanging out with Amy while she worked at The Brew and Chew, living off the iced coffee, smoothies, and frappes that she made whenever you asked. You want to go back to the six weeks you spent as counsellors at Camp Kichi-Wawa, because you’ve never been so blissfully happy. You had to drag her there, kicking and screaming because it was literally the _last_ thing she wanted to do, because of Sabrina and everything else – if you never see her again, it’ll be too soon – and her serious low tolerance for anyone under high school age, but you managed by feeding her reminders of night swimming, s’mores, and campfires.

You got those memories back and more with an arm full of friendship bracelets and a whole camera roll of pictures to show for it. You had fun, more than you ever had the last time you were there right before high school when all the worry and expectation had started to kick in. You had _ridiculous_ fun teaching the little ones how to make those s’mores – Amy’s sandwich is foolproof – and painting their faces and giving them pretty braids. You had even more fun watching Amy bond with the surliest bunch of middle schoolers _ever_ , teaching them how to hike, climb, orienteer, and make friendship bracelets, reminding them to be true to themselves and not get sucked into high school politics bullshit. You saw all the camp girls through homesickness and loneliness, and you watched them grow and change along with the rest of the staff. Now you know why Rory, Jason, Zoe, and everyone do it for a living. You grew to love it as much as they did.

But better than all of those things, is what you shared with Amy. She found herself again there, in the peace and quiet of those woodlands. You found yourself too. The real you, quite unexpectedly. Or, maybe she was there all along, and you just couldn’t ignore her anymore. You laid out under the stars and talked, _really_ talked, like you haven’t in a long time. Slowly, slowly, and without your notice, you fell in love with her all over again, only this time, it was very real. You kissed her late one night, with the smell of the campfire still in the air, and the taste of Chase and Jamie’s contraband beer on her tongue. You snuck out at night for walks and held hands, sneaking kisses in the dark like you wish you had before. You made love in a too small bed – awkwardly at first, and then less so – surrounded by the scent of pine, always feeling like you were moments away from being caught.

It didn’t stop when you came home. You took advantage of Farrah’s work trips and an empty house to stay in bed all day, wrapped up in her until the last possible moment when you both had to go to work. Even then, you’d text constantly, beaming like an idiot whenever Amy would reply with some ridiculous string of emoji’s.

And now, that’s all gone because summer’s gone too.

“I wish we were back at Camp Kichi-Wawa, I miss it.”

“Me too,” Amy sighs deeply. “I know, Karm, I know.”

She’s torn and you hate it, feeling a sudden pang of guilt for addressing the elephant in the room – or rather, the elephant in the Camry. She wants to touch you, you can feel her hand hovering near yours, but you know she can’t, not now. Anyone could see you, and then you’d be everyone’s main topic of conversation, again. You haven’t talked about it, but it’s pretty obvious to you that you can’t go waltzing into school as Karmy 2.0, the alternative to the horrendous but surprisingly cute power couple that is Booper (the whole thing with Lauren and Liam is still all kinds of weird). No one knows about Camp Kichi-Wawa or how stupidly in love you are, not even Lauren and Shane. They think you hooked up with Chris and Amy hooked up with Jen. Neither of you corrected them.

“How do I get through a whole day without kissing you?”

You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“I don’t know, but I also know I don’t want everyone in the _fucking_ school knowing our business.” There it is, the hardness in her voice you knew was coming. “What’s between us, it’s special, it’s private. It’s nobody else’s business. I don’t want all the questions and the gossipy bullshit,” she pauses to gather herself, anger rising in her voice, “but, more than that, I don’t want all that pressure on you.”

This time, you’re the one to sigh. She’s right, you know she is. You don't want her to have to hide herself or censor herself, but you also don’t want a repeat of the Karmy era either. Amy doesn’t want to be Hester’s lesbian poster girl, and neither do you. You haven’t labelled this, you haven’t labelled yourself either. It’s not like you can just slink into a free seat at the GSA get help from them to figure it out, it’d raise too much suspicion.

“But, just being friends is pressure on you,” you point out, finally lifting your head to look at her. She’s staring off into the distance, toward the entrance. “That’s not fair.”

She glances over, shrugging when she replies, “I don’t care about me, I care about you.”

“Amy,” you squeak out, suddenly overwhelmed. You’re still not used to how she is with you. How fierce and all-consuming her love is.

“Hey, come on, no tears, you’ll ruin that flawless makeup,” she smiles, but it’s sad. “It looks so pretty.”

“You think it’s pretty?” you blink back tears.

“You’re beautiful,” she breathes. “You always look beautiful.”

You blush, feeling it radiate off you, knowing it’s a deep, deep red. She’s much closer than she was before, straining against her seatbelt across the console.

“So I’m the exception to your rule?”

“To every rule I ever made.”

She says nothing else. There’s a whoosh of her seatbelt, and a huge exhalation of air when your lips meet, and she kisses you, hard and insistent. The fierceness of it is a shock, but the best kind of shock. When you imagined this very first goodbye to your summer Amy, and the kiss she’d leave you with until the end of the day, it was nothing like this. It takes you long moments to kiss back greedily, like you didn’t spend half an hour in bed doing this before breakfast this morning. Like you won’t make it all the way until three in the afternoon without kissing her, or touching her, or being close to her in any way.

You’ve gotten used to it, taken it for granted even. It felt like a simple thing when you hatched the plan at the stoplight right before school. Now, you’re not so sure, because how can you deny yourself this.

Amy’s the one to pull away.

“Yeah, we really shouldn’t be doing that here,” she reels backwards, hands up, like she doesn’t trust herself around you.

“You started it,” you protest, and she nods. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“I love you,” she says, like you need reminding, her voice laced with sadness. “We’ll figure it out,” she adds, her hand covering yours and squeezing it gently.

All you do is nod in return, because you know it’s the right thing to do. The bell to signal the start of the day is moments away from ringing, and then there’s no turning back.

She seems so sure, so certain, and you want to believe that it isn’t a huge mistake, but the moment she opens the car door and gets out, slamming it behind her, it feels like one. You scramble to catch up, cursing the stuck seatbelt that makes her wait. Eventually, you do catch up, keeping a respectful distance between you both as you walk to the school entrance. To keep from taking her hand, you grasp both straps of your backpack. Even the smile she gives you when she holds open the door feels too much. Everything feels too much. You want to tell Amy you changed your mind, but you can’t. This time, the decision was mutual.

You’re faking it. Again.


	2. Sleepless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks into their faking it ruse, Karma and Amy find it harder to keep up than they thought, and struggle to deal with realities of their decision.
> 
> _“It’s been a long month.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8128042/chapters/18632890). So now you all know Karma and Amy’s secret! Your response to this has been so great, I’m so pleased you like it. I hope you continue to do so. Chapter prompt: _“It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”_  
> 

You hate everything.

You hate Austin. You hate Hester. You hate your new class schedule and how you only have three classes a week with Amy. You hate the fact that she got on the yearbook committee and finishes school later than you because of it, and you get even _less_ time alone together than you thought. Most of all, you hate – with every fibre of your being – Jess Di Marco and her smiling, laughing, and hair-flipping whenever she’s around Amy. You hate that Amy’s so oblivious to her flirting. You hate that Jess _gets_ to flirt with her at all. You hate that you can’t do anything about it because you’re not supposed to have any claims on her.

It’s been a long month.

Any time you see Jess in the hall, walking around like she owns the school, you have to hold back. You’ve been biting your tongue so much you’re surprised not to taste blood – bitter and coppery, ever present. At the very least, you want to wipe the smug smile right off her face. You want to knock her block off. You want to tear out her hair and scream at her that Amy’s _yours._ In even less kind moments, you want to _kill_ her. It’d be a crime of passion, of course. You’re a pacifist, but you’re also jealous as hell. It’s an unfortunate combination, which goes some way to explaining why you’re still awake at two in the morning, staring at your reflection in the mirror under the harsh lights of Amy’s bathroom – you still think of it as hers even though it’s been yours too for well over a year now. You look like crap – pale except for the horrendous bags under your eyes that no amount of concealer will hide.

This isn’t the first night you’ve found yourself unable to sleep, used to lying in your own bed, or pacing the floor until you can’t help but go and look in on Amy. Most of the time, she’s asleep, but lately, she seems more restless too. You never plan to end up in her bed, it just happens. The sex happens too. You love waking up in her arms and the minutes you spend together in the mornings before you sneak back to your own bed. Technically, you’re not really meant to, for the sake of keeping up the ruse, but it’s hard to resist. The cloak of night makes it easy to give in to what you’re fighting so much in the day. Truthfully, you never expected it to be this hard to keep things private, and perfect, and special. It’s just, you love her so much and you’re so desperate to show that love that it hurts. Except, there’s no pill to swallow to make this pain go away.

As you snap off the light, feeling your way in the darkness, you realise that Amy must’ve felt exactly like you are now back when you were faking and hooking up with Liam. It’s horrendous. The thought she could’ve suffered this much makes you feel _ill_ . If you could go back and change it, you would. You just weren’t ready. It’s different now, but you still feel like you’re holding Amy back somehow, stifling her. She needs a Reagan. She needs a Sabrina. She needs someone who can be the girlfriend she deserves. The kind of girlfriend who’s not just a friend who’s a girl, and that’s all you’re allowed to be right now. It’s killing you.

Disorientated, you walk right into Amy’s mannequin man, Marvin, sending it and you crashing to the ground. You let out a strangled yelp, flailing when it lands on you. The noise is enough to wake the dead.

 _Fuck_.

Moments later, the light on Amy’s nightstand comes on and she sits bolt upright. “What the fuck, Karm?” she whisper-shouts, her hand hovering near the baseball bat stashed under her bed. It’s not an idle threat. You’ve seen her swing it more than once, thankfully not at you.

“Sorry I woke you,” you offer, apologetic, scrambling up off the floor, holding the mannequin’s right arm in your hand, waving it uselessly as you talk, not sure if you should attempt to put him back together. “I didn’t want to turn on the light and wake you.”

She smirks. “So crashing around and almost breaking your neck because of Marvin was the easier option?”

“Something like that,” you laugh softly, placing the arm on the carpet, picking your way back to Amy’s bed. When you turn back to look at the mess, Marvin’s head rolls toward you, dead eyes staring. He looks how you feel. “I'm really am sorry, babe,” you say again when you climb onto the bed, kneeling next to her.

Words like that are allowed in here. It makes her smile. Briefly.

“It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway,” she shrugs. “Just be thankful my mom didn’t burst in with her gun!” she laughs a little to herself, shifting to prop herself up with pillows. “She knows how to use it.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to think about why she might want to.” You hate how sheepish you sound. You hate that there’s too much space between you and Amy right now, you can tell from the pattern on her quilt. You hate that all of is this both within and beyond your control.

This is your fault. This was your idea.

“Karma, it’s not like she would’ve busted us fucking each other’s brains out,” she declares, with a wry smile. “About three hours late for that.”

At that, you glance up at her and smile. “Thank God.”

This time, it _was_ fucking. First in the shower, using the cloak of running water to muffle the sound. Then again on the carpet, laid out on towels because Amy’s bed springs creak too loudly to do it in her bed. You ended up doing it a third time, springs be damned, clinging to the headboard of the bed to stop it hitting the wall and leaving a mark. All the marks are on you. Amy likes it, and so do you. They’re nowhere obvious, but they still matter. It’s your way of laying claim.

“That was hot,” she comments after a moment and you just nod.

Hot is an understatement. She makes you horny as hell. You just want to touch her all the the time. You don’t have nearly enough hands or knowledge to do what you want. Amy’s patient and a willing teacher, and you know she gets a kick out of showing you things, but you still feel like you have a lot to learn before you can be as good as her.

The memory of it makes you blush, playing with the hem of your shirt – Amy’s favourite, borrowed – the only thing you’re wearing. You had to cover your mouth with your free hand to keep from making too much noise. She found the whole thing hilarious.

“You need to warn me when you’re gonna do stuff like that!”

There’s a mischievous glint in her eye when she says, “That’s no fun.”

You’re both laughing then and it breaks whatever strange tension has built up between you, and Amy opens out her arms, signalling for you to come closer. “C’mere, sorry I was cranky and weird before,” she says, watching you scramble across the covers, slipping back inside. “You’re OK though, right? It wasn’t too much?” she continues, sweetly, idly stroking your hair.

“No, I liked it, it was fun,” you reply, without hesitation. “Just kinda ...” you trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

“Fast?” she chips in, and you nod. “It snowballed, huh?”

You nod again, curling into her, hand on her stomach, stroking the small patch of exposed skin where her old, stretched sleep shirt has ridden up. “Sure did.”

“I’ve never seen you like that before.”

That too, is an understatement. Everything about the pace of your relationship moved quickly. She makes you feel reckless, out of control, and kind of wild. You love her, of course, but she brings out this _lust_ in you that you feel so urgently that you don’t know what to do with it. You’re glad she’s so responsive to it, because she must be confused by this one-eighty, even if she doesn’t show it.

You pull back a little to look at her. “You – you make me like that,” she frowns. “I mean it in a good way. You see people all over each other in public all the time and I never really knew why,” you pause, making sure she’s looking when you add. “I get it now.”

“You definitely get something, Karm,” she teases, looking ever so slightly smug.

Honestly, you’ve been pretty lucky so far not to be caught during your afternoon makeout sessions, and you’d be lying if you weren’t just a little turned on by the thrill of that actually happening. You haven’t told Farrah anything about the summer, and it feels disrespectful. If she’s seen anything, she hasn’t brought it up. You haven’t exactly been discreet either, sneaking kisses in the kitchen when you do the dishes and playing footsie under the table at every opportunity. You’re not sure how she’d react to the news. Actually, you are sure. She’d have the same reaction you imagine Shane and Lauren to have: that this is just a phase, that you’ll end up breaking Amy’s heart all over again. That’s the thing you’re most afraid of, because you’ve never actually set out to hurt her, it’s a consequence of your behaviour. You thought losing her as a friend would be the end of the world, but now you know differently. If you lost her now, when she’s so much _more_ than that, you’d never recover. Neither would she.

“It makes me feel kind of crazy, you know?”

“Like you can’t get enough?” she asks, seemingly genuinely curious.

“Yeah.” There’s no point in lying. Not anymore. Not with her. “Faking it is harder than I thought it was going to be.” She just shoots you her best ‘no shit, Sherlock’ look, but you’re relieved it’s out there now. For the sake of your sanity if nothing else.

“But we knew it would be,” she reminds you gently, kissing your hair. “It’s always harder to hide how you really feel than to show it.”

You feel a strange pang of guilt. She’s better at coping with this than you for one simple reason: she’s done this before.

“I hate that I’m with you at school, but I’m not with you how I want. I got too used to being able to touch you and kiss you whenever I wanted and now I can’t,” you admit, sheepishly. You don’t want to be all clingy and jealous again, but it’s true. “And, I _hate_ that other girls can just flirt with you and I can’t do anything.”

Well, it’s out there. Amy’s mouth hangs open and it takes her a few long seconds to speak. “Like who?”

“Jess,” you reply, simply.

“Jess who?”

“Di Marco!” you cry, all too loudly, spitting her name out with the same venom Amy used to reserve for ‘Liam Booker.’

Amy laughs at you. She actually laughs. You wriggle out of her embrace, wanting to get the _hell_ out of the room. Deep down, you know you’re being ridiculous, but you didn’t expect her to be the one to confirm it so readily.

“Karma, wait,” she implores, climbing out from the covers and reaching for you, grasping your wrist.

“I know, I’m a jealous, possessive crazy, bitch! Reagan was right.”

“ _Karma_ ,” she says, warningly. “You’re not, and she wasn’t.” You heave a sigh, knowing she's right, sitting back down on the bed. “I know it _really_ sucks,” she continues, earnestly, stroking your cheek, “and I hate that it’s making you feel like this, but for now, it’s the best thing for us. They’ll never understand.”

You nod solemnly. “I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to kill Jess.” A brief bark of laughter escapes her. “I don’t know how long I can do this, Aims.”

“For the record, I don’t _care_ about Jess or anyone else,” she affirms. “I want you. I want _this_ .” She moves closer, close enough to kiss, but not quite. “Jess might get to look, but you get to touch, Karm. Don’t forget that,” she pauses, holding your gaze when she adds, “you’re the only one who gets to do that. You’re the only one I _want_ to do that. No one else matters.”

“I am?” slips out before you realise it.

“You are,” she smiles. “And, Little Miss Jealous, as much as I like you being all territorial, you have nothing to worry about OK?”

“When I’m not with you, all I think about is being with you, and it makes me think stupid things,” you admit, knowing it’s probably too much, but you don’t care. You're already doing so much to rein in your feelings and hide them from everyone else, you don’t want to hide them from her.

“I only have eyes for you. Guess I always have.”

If you weren’t hopelessly in love with her already, you would be now. She always knows what to say to make you feel better. You’re not sure you deserve her sometimes, but you’re so glad you took a risk and kissed her that night at camp. It felt right then, and it feels right now. You don’t have the words to tell her how much she means to you, but you don’t really need them. You surge forward, closing what little remains of the distance between you, pressing your lips to hers in a heated kiss, swallowing down her squeak of surprise. You keep kissing, climbing on top of her and straddling her hips. Fuck it. You need her. You need her now. Again. No matter how long you you’re with her, it never seems enough, even when it's time like this, stretched and elastic.

“Just using my touching privileges,” you whisper, hot in her ear, latching onto her neck as your hands ghost down her body, fingers curling around the hem of her sleep shirt, lifting it.

“Touch away,” she says with a smirk, her voice full of that sexy huskiness she gets when she’s turned on.

You push her shirt upwards, palms skating over her body with teasing slowness, drinking in the sight. She lets out a shuddering breath at the contact, locking eyes with you. Nothing matters, not when you have this. Not when you know she’s yours, completely and utterly yours. Sure, Jess Di Marco gets to flirt with her and make her smile, but looking isn’t anything like touching. You know that now. You know it means more the second she leans up grabs the back of your head, pulling you down for another kiss, and another, and another.

She’s all you need.


	3. Pleasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karma and Amy go to evermore desperate lengths for time alone together. When the strain of faking their friendship and the pressures of school becomes too much, Amy reaches breaking point.
> 
> _“This is anything but discreet.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8128042/chapters/18632890). If you’re a regular reader, you’ll know by now that I often structure my stories to shift gears in the third chapter. This story is no exception and while it certainly enters more NSFW territory, this isn’t just about smut. It’s about desire, the need to express it, and the lack of a space to do so. Chapter prompt: _“Wow.”_  
> 

This is Amy’s fault.

More precisely, it’s Amy’s gym shorts fault. If she didn’t look so good running around in them this morning, and you’d been together for more than five minutes in the past two weeks, you wouldn’t have dragged her into the janitor’s closet and blown off last period. You miss her, you’re horny as _hell_ , and who the _fuck_ needs calculus in the real world anyway? Faced with an hour of Mr Abernathy or an hour with Amy, you chose her.

You wish you could say that this was some spur of the moment thing, but it isn’t. This is something you plan that’s integral to your day. A habit you’ve skipped lunch for, run from classes for, and told elaborate lies for. You got too used to having her close. You took it for granted, and it’s made you both greedy. The realities of senior year have hit hard – you’ve both taken on so much with assignments and clubs that it’s almost impossible to have a social life. On top of that, Farrah is home more, so you’ve barely seen each other.

In here, no one can judge, no one can ask questions; you just get to _be_ with her.

Sometimes you talk, curled up together on a pile of boxes, kissing, but lately, these meetings have become a blur of frenzied kisses and desperate, indelicate touches that leave you giddy and breathless, splashing your face and fixing your hair in the bathroom. You’re in love – completely, hopelessly – but you’re in lust too. It’s a white-hot heat kind of desire that no one else has ever inspired in either of you. She’s told you as much in one of those rare talking moments.

Somewhere along the line, you’ve started to live for this time with her. Counting down the minutes. You’re starting to associate the warmth of her body, her hands, and her mouth with the dusty, disinfected darkness of this closet. The scent of summer – pine and campfires – has started to fade. It’s happened faster than either of you wanted.

Everything’s moving too quickly.

You planned to end this when Hank came back into town earlier in the month for his usual flying-visit-turned-father-daughter dinner with Amy at her favourite restaurant. She invited you like always, thinking it would be the perfect opportunity to ‘come out’ – a training wheels run with someone who wouldn’t judge. Farrah’s come a long way, but you think she’d need time to accept this. You were ready and prepared, and it seemed like the most perfect plan, right until you got invited to Mike Taylor’s party with the rest of the drama club kids, and half the school turned up. Amy came under duress, you promised her you’d make it worth her while, likely in the back of her car under the cover of the cherry blossom trees in the school parking lot. Romantic. Half the school also saw you refuse to kiss her during spin the bottle. Half the school witnessed Shane’s eyebrows shoot up, incredulous. Half the school saw Lauren ranting that something “was up” between you. Half the school continued to talk about it for a solid week, Lisbeth and Leila started back with their Karmy fan club, and Vashti was determined to restart her column.

After that, your plan to tell Hank unravelled spectacularly. Amy didn’t want any of it, and you felt so ridiculously guilty because it would’ve been easier if you _had_ kissed her. So what if it ended up on instagram for the internet to see? Everyone forgets. But you didn’t kiss her, and not kissing her created more attention than it diverted.

Faking it _sucks._

You’ve been doing this for three months. _Three_ . You thought things would be different by now. That Amy would finally lose patience and call time on this, but she hasn’t. If anything, she’s more determined to keep this between the two of you. Private. Special. Untainted.

Right now, you want to believe that’s true. You want to believe it because she’s holding you from behind, pressing soft kisses to your neck, hands roaming under your dress, hitched up high, and it’s hard to think about anything else. Or, anything that exists beyond this closet, because all you want to do is _feel_ this, grasping for purchase against her jeans, nails biting into her thighs. It’s been at least a week since you were here, what with writing deadlines and play rehearsals, and _fuck_ , you need this because being the Juliet to Blake Bradford’s Romeo is fun, and you’re beyond pleased to have stolen it right from under Libby Douglas’ nose, but Margot is demanding. It’s exhausting.

Blake is no Amy. You need more than this. You need her. You need to be at home in bed touching everything of her that you can reach. Craning back like this, up on your toes to try and kiss her just _isn’t_ enough. But there's no way you’re getting naked and fucking each other on the floor of the janitor’s closet, even though you’ve given it serious thought recently. Earlier today, you gave even more serious thought to slipping into Amy’s shower cubicle after gym and going at it right there while everyone else went off to lunch. From the look on her face when you snuck in to kiss her, you know you’re not alone in those thoughts either, even if she was the one to put on the brakes and make you see sense.

She doesn’t tease you anymore, not like she used to, because there’s a desperate edge to this that neither of you can shake or begin to deny. The snatched kisses and longing looks aren’t cute anymore, they’re painful.

“Babe,” she whispers, between kisses, and you immediately stiffen, knowing what's coming. “I have to go soon.”

You groan when her hands still and she moves slightly away, pulling your dress back down.“Ten more minutes,” you whine, pouting even though she can’t see. “Please?”

She sighs heavily. “Karm, don’t do this, you promised,” she reminds you, and you feel terrible. “I’d stay if I could,” she adds, forlornly.

“Please?”

How you manage not to say ‘you’re standing me up for Chris _fucking_ Hardy' is a minor miracle. After the Jess episode, you don’t want to give her anymore reasons to think you’re a jealous bitch.

“Karma ….” she protests, elongating your name to twice its length.

“Aims,” you reach behind, knowing she’s not that far away, and take her hand. “Just stay a little,” you offer, like it’s a good compromise, pulling her toward you again. “I need you.”

Without another word, your guide her hand between your legs, and let her feel. You’re too turned on to be ashamed.

She lets out a long shaky breath, “Shit, Karma … I … OK.”

It’s still adorable that she gets so easily flustered after everything you’ve done together.

“See?” you say, trying for innocent and instructional, but you’re barely able to keep still, naturally pushing against her hand.

She recovers slightly, lips back on your neck again suddenly when she says, “Uh-huh,” stroking you through the fabric. Time’s ticking, but she’s still here, _very_ here, touching you, body pressed as tightly as possible to yours, and that’s all you need.

You're more turned on than you’ve ever been, and ridiculously wet for her. She can feel it through the material of your panties – your super-expensive-very-ruined-worn especially-for-Amy panties – and there’s no way you can leave this closet without her doing more than kissing you. That’s not enough either. Not anymore. The more you get from her, the more she gives, the more you want. Without you having to say anything, she slips her hand inside your panties, fingers sliding easily through your wetness in long, slow strokes, her other hand on your stomach, steadying, anchoring. You lean back, desperate to kiss her, but you can’t quite reach. She tilts her head down, closing the distance, kissing you roughly, greedily, swallowing down your gasps as she starts to circle your clit. Your turn your head away, eyes screwed closed, lip caught between your teeth. She’s touching you differently, faster and harder than she usually would, but _oh_ is it working for you.

“You’re close babe, huh?” she breathes, hot in the shell of your ear, nipping a little at your neck, more exposed when you tilt your head back. “Come for me.”

The closet is clearly working for her too. Talk like that isn’t her thing. Usually. But none of this used to be her thing either. You make a strangled little noise in response. It’s hard to think, it’s hard to _breathe_ when you’re this close, and she just _knows_ how to touch you. Moments later, you come, hard, loud, and too fast, the sound of your release obscured by the much louder ringing of the bell that signals the end of the school day. You fall back against Amy, jelly-legged, shocked by the sudden shrill sound, dragging you back into the real world.

“Shit!” you manage, barely recovered.

“Oh fuck!” Amy exclaims, letting you go far too soon. The change in her is so swift, it’s like emotional whiplash. This isn’t how it goes. She holds you, and kisses you, and eases you down. She doesn’t just _leave_. “Sorry, babe, I have to go,” she announces, flustered, hastily buttoning up her shirt and pulling her hair back into a ponytail. She kisses you, but it’s barely anything, over before it began.

Any hopes you had about convincing her to stay and do this all over again are gone. She’s not even staying to make sure you’re OK. When did other people and other places become more important than you? You’re a long way from Camp Kichi-Wawa.

“But wait,” you protest, sounding whiny as you rush to fix your dress, “you can’t go now, everyone will see us leave. Together.”

Outside, the sound of students spilling out into the hall, the cacophony of chatter, lockers clanging and doors slamming seems horrendous all of a sudden.

She darkens. “Fuck!” she exclaims, kicking a supplies box in frustration. “This is ridiculous!”

You want to say ‘I know,’ but somehow, you bite your tongue. Whenever you imagined what it’d be like to sneak around, engaged in a passionate affair, it was never like this. Amy was never like this either. Your mood plummets. So much for endorphins and afterglow.

“We just need to wait,” you remind her, stepping closer, attempting to take her hand. It surprises you when she shirks it, moving toward the door instead.

“And _I_ need to go,” she fires back, grabbing her backpack and dusting it off. You just stare, not sure who you’re looking at and wondering where your Amy went to. “Karma, don’t. Not now. How long does it take people to _fucking_ move? _God_ !”

“Talk to me,” you try. The last thing you want to do is argue with her. “Bail on the project.”

“Karma, I love you, but I’m not staying another hour in here. It’s hot as hell!” she laughs a little wiping her brow.

“Come to rehearsal?”

You’re getting desperate now. She seems to sense it, coming back toward you. A little of the hardness in her features is gone.

“I’d love to, but I can’t. Hardy’s gonna tank this project without me. We need all the time we can get.”

She said no. She actually said no to you.

“Margot will let you gatecrash.”

“I have no desire what-so- _fucking_ -ever to sit and watch Blake Bradford garble his way through Shakespeare and use it as an excuse to stick his tongue down your throat!”

 _Oh_ . Suddenly things are making a lot more sense.

“What?”

It sounds like she’s accusing you of something. You don’t like it.

“You heard,” she replies, glancing toward the door when the hall starts to quiet. “You’re amazing as Juliet, Karm, and you look cute in the angel costume, but I can’t watch that anymore.”

“Amy, it’s Romeo and Juliet, what the _fuck_ am I supposed to do?”

She whirls around, angry. “I don’t know, maybe stage kiss? Jesus.”

“You think I enjoy it?”

Well, it’s out there now.

“I think you look like you don’t mind,” she offers, bitterly. “Everyone has a boner for Boho Bradford, right?” a peal of laughter escapes her.

“Why are you being like this?” you ask, and she looks at you like you’ve asked the dumbest question in the world.

Sure, you like Blake and he’s fun to hang out with, but it’s only been with the rest of the drama club anyway. As for kissing him, you don’t even care. You might as well be kissing your own hand. He’s not who you’re into, not anymore.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she starts, huffing out a breath, “maybe I don’t like seeing my girlfriend make out with a guy, because guess what, I can’t do anything about it. He can flirt with you, and fawn over you, and bring you chai lattes, and I just have to take it.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“I’m being stupid? You go off at me about Jen _fucking_ Di Marco over _nothing,_ and I’m being stupid? Fuck this!”

“I don’t care about him, OK? I care about you,” you reply, sincere, feeling tears begin to well up.

“I care about you too, Karma,” she pauses, pursing her lips closed, and you know she’s holding something back. She reaches for the door, unlocking it.

“Amy, wait,” you plead, feeling a tear roll down your cheek and betray you.

“No, Karma, I can’t,” she snaps. “Maybe I want more than hooking up in the janitor’s closet, you know? Not so much to ask.”

“Wow.” You’ve got nothing. Nothing at all. She’s rendered you speechless.

“Just remember, this was your idea, and I stupidly went along with it!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You’re yelling a little now, snatching your bag and surging forward into the thankfully empty hallway. “I did this for you!”

When you reach for her, she swats you away. “I’m not doing this! Not here, not now.”

This is anything but discreet.

“You can’t just leave like this!”

“Yeah, I can. I don’t feel like failing a class on top of everything else.”

“Amy, I … we just … I … we can fix this,” you stutter, desperately trying to keep up with her as she walks away.

“ _I_ don’t have time to fix this,” she replies, turning away from you.

This time, you don’t follow. You stay frozen to the spot in shocked silence. Amy’s retreating figure blurs before your eyes as you start to cry. You wish you’d never made up this stupid plan. If only you’d been braver. If only you cared less about what people thought. If only Amy could be herself at school and love you how she wants instead of fearing for your privacy and fighting against school gossip.

Faking it was supposed to protect your relationship, but all it’s done is ruin it.


	4. Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determined to put the unhappiness of the past few weeks behind them, Karma sets out to make Amy’s birthday extra special.  
>  _“Tonight is different.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8128042/chapters/18632890). I’m so glad you’re enjoying this fic and embracing the turns it takes. Consider this a reward for the pain of chapter three! I wouldn't usually play with canon so much, but I really wanted to write a birthday chapter, especially since we didn't get to see Amy’s on screen, so just set the timeline aside for this one. I’m really pleased with how it turned out. Chapter prompt: _“Happy birthday.”_  
> 

There’s a lot to celebrate.

It’s Amy’s eighteenth birthday, you _aced_ your last bio test (no one was more surprised than Ms Oakley), and everyone is pretty much in love with you after seeing you and Blake on stage in _Romeo and Juliet_ . Most importantly of all, you and Amy are very much in love with each other.

A lot’s happened in the past few weeks. It’s been a blur of assignments, play performances, the neverending food parade of the Holidays, and party prep for Amy. What you have now is close to what you shared in the summer, but you still haven’t told anyone. You did end up under the cherry trees in the parking lot after the episode in the janitor’s closet. You’re not sure if it was a turning point, a breaking point or both. But, you do know now that it needed to happen. No matter how painful it was at the time. You stayed in that car for hours. Amy cried, and then you cried. Then, you apologised, talked everything over and agreed to try again. You traded kisses and ‘I love you’s’ and then you made love in the back seat and steamed up the windows.

It was surprisingly romantic.

Being with her, but not being with her is still hard, but nothing like it was before. The tension between you is less, and the pressure is less. You’re not letting your guard drop exactly, just being less strict about the rules. You’re letting yourselves relax and be close to each other again, and it’s wonderful. You can’t always show _how_ wonderful – you have to delete the cute, flirty texts and pictures – but trading the janitor’s closet for cloud watching in the grass, sheltered by the science block was a really good decision. Things feel much more normal. Special, not seedy. You’re happy and Amy has her spark back – the spark you love so _very_ much. Bending those rules has given you room to breathe for sure, but it’s also meant you felt OK about helping Shane and Lauren out with the party planning – surprising someone who doesn't really like surprises is, well, surprisingly hard. Between the three of you, the plans went off without a hitch, and won the approval of the birthday girl _and_ Farrah.

You’ve chalked it up as a hard-fought win.

Everything about being with Amy is like that, you think. It’s why you have to enjoy every little moment, no matter how small. Like when Amy came to every performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ clapping for you even louder than Shane, Lauren, Noah and Liam. How ridiculously proud of you she was, bounding backstage to hug you, barely able to keep from doing anything more. Later, she gave you flowers and chocolates, like a real Broadway opening night, and let you tell Farrah and everyone else they were from Blake, but you both know the truth and that’s all that matters. Amy scowled at Blake every time he spoke, and you know Shane’s been on her for it, but it’s mostly good-natured teasing. He’s not so evangelical anymore about the whole Karmy thing. Noah and Lauren though? They’ve been throwing you and Amy much more knowing looks. Except, you’re not terrified they’ll call you out on it, you’re just more certain of the support you’ll have once you and Amy decide the time is right to tell the truth.

This isn’t about keeping a secret anymore; it’s about keeping control of your lives. You finally understand what Amy means when she says this is really about “doing things on your own timeline.”

Right now, time with Amy is _definitely_ yours. It’s late; everyone else is asleep, including Amy’s nana in the guest room, so you should really go to bed too. But, the silence is kind of magical. You haven’t said goodnight to Amy yet, and you’re too wired to even think of sleeping anyway. You’ve had way too much sugar and for that. The party cleanup is done, with about forty trash bags to show for it. As is tradition, she’ll have leftover birthday cake for breakfast, and this time you might join her because it’s the most insanely good Amy-friendly cake _ever_ , red velvet, made by that fancy bakery in Dallas where Lauren ordered the croquembouche from years ago.

You know Amy’s still awake, you can hear her playing around with the camera kit she got, _click, click, click_ . Every so often, there’s a burst of brightness from the flash going off. Seeing her face when she opened it, last, as her main present, was amazing. You knew what Hank and Farrah had planned of course – a small, professional setup of her own, like the one he carries around day-to-day, instead of using his secondhand or the laughably ancient stuff the school lends out.

She hasn’t been this happy in a really long time. She’s all bouncy and excited like she’s five instead of eighteen, and it has nothing to do with all the sugar. Her happiness is infectious. She just threw herself into everything, even Shane’s stupid party games in the yard, and the lengthy session of karaoke led by Lauren, Lisbeth and Leila once the more formal part of the night was over. During the loudest off-key rendition of happy birthday you’ve ever heard, Amy smiled at you, looking at you over the top of the brightly burning candles on her cake while you all sang, it made you think of Camp Kichi-Wawa, and the stars, and the campfire all over again. You know she felt it too. Until she blew out her candles and made a wish, for a few seconds at least, it felt like there was no one else in the room.

That’s part of why you’re here, hovering in the bathroom by the door that separates you from Amy. Every other night, you’d walk straight in, even if you were still technically creeping around to avoid raising suspicion. Tonight is different. Everything is different. You’re wearing a black patterned silk robe that used to belong to your mom, her souvenir from a student trip to Japan, now your favourite thing to wear – one of the few things you managed to save when the house went up in smoke. Except, you’re glad your mother isn’t actually here to see what you’re wearing under that robe. Thankfully, she and your dad Facetimed with you and Amy today, because they couldn’t make it from Houston, sending a card and a book of Ansel Adams landscapes in their absence. It’s not that you think she’d disapprove of you wearing one of the most expensive lingerie sets you’ve ever owned for the sole purpose of Amy’s enjoyment, she’s all about embracing and being empowered by your own sexuality and sensuality – Amy makes you feel desired, and sexy, and confident like you never have before – you’re just kind of torn, because your mother also hates women being objectified.

If it were anyone but Amy, you’d probably back out, but she was with you when you both saw it on the mannequin in the window of Victoria’s Secret at the mall. All it took was six words, whispered teasingly in your ear while you pretended to be walking along as friends, to make you come back the next day and blow the last of your summer lifeguarding money on it: “you’d look insanely gorgeous in that.”

You blushed a deep shade of red in response.

Since then, you’ve spent a lot of time looking at yourself in the mirror, and for once, you know she’s right. Somehow, you make cherry red lingerie work with auburn hair. Somehow, black stockings and suspenders make you look classy instead of like a slutty hooker or a teenage knock-off of Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_ . You, Karma Tanvi Ashcroft, look hot as _hell_ tonight. Somewhere, the twelve-year-old you, who hates her frizzy hair and ugly new braces is crying with joy. Thanks to many YouTube tutorials, you look like the a 1950s pin-up girl, with perfect curls and even more perfect red lipstick, just like Jean Harlow. Amy loves all the Old Hollywood starlets, but you’re more excited abut the fact, she’ll muss up your hair and kiss off your lipstick. Sure, this is about Amy’s enjoyment, but that doesn't mean you don’t get anything out of it.

Well, it’s now or never, and this outfit will be pretty hard to explain when you go down to breakfast in a few hours. Though it’d be worth it just to see Farrah’s face, it’d also be a very public way to show her your lack of interest in any boy within a ten mile radius has nothing to do with you “working on yourself” and everything to do with Amy being better at working you over than any boy ever has. The worst thing is, she already knows that, you stupidly told her once when you were lying in bed together. You’ve never seen someone look so smug.

Tonight, it’s _your_ turn to be smug. You’re about to blow her mind. Twice.

“Aims, are you still awake?” you call sweetly, tapping lightly on the door, playing innocent.

“Very awake,” she replies in a stage whisper. “I thought you were never gonna come in.”

At the very least, you always sneak in for a good night kiss and a hug. Sometimes, you end up doing much more than that, your hands clamped over each other’s mouths to muffle the sound of your moaning. You’ll definitely have to do that tonight. It took a while for Amy to let go and be more vocal, but now she’s starting to embrace it. Though that’s incredibly sexy, it’s also incredibly loud.

“As if I’d just sleep!” you laugh, peeking your head around the door, opening it just enough, but not so much that it gives everything away. The robe doesn’t matter much; she’s seen it before. She says it makes you look decadent and sophisticated. “I have something for you, birthday girl.”

“You already got me this beautiful necklace, Karm,” she offers, playing with it, as if you need a reminder. “I love it.”

Her room is lit by the warm, dim light of the lamp on her nightstand. It has one of your paisley scarves covering it, a layover from when you were trying to make romantic mood lighting. You're amazed she left it there, but you’re more amazed at your own forethought. She looks beautiful in this light, sitting indian style in the middle of her bed, still playing with her camera, wearing her favourite baseball shirt. She’s seemingly ready to sleep, the curls in her hair long since dropped out.

“But that was from your best friend,” you correct, because that’s exactly what it was.

A thoughtful, sweet gift from one friend to another. Exactly the kind of present everyone expected you to get and cooed over in admiration. Shane and Noah were there when you picked it out and thought it perfect. It is.

Fully pushing open the door, you wait, and then clear your throat to turn her attention from the camera back to you. The door closes with a click, and she snaps her head up. The second her eyes meet yours; you pull at the tie on your robe, loosening it as you slowly walk towards her; all swaying hips and playful smile. All of Margot’s talk about giving yourself to a role and finding your inner self suddenly makes sense.

“ _This_ is from your girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. Not friend who’s a girl, or girlfriend in that horrible way some girls mean it. Here, now, the word is still new and dangerous. It gives you a strange thrill, like learning curse words in a foreign language and using them in public where no one knows what they mean.

You part the robe slowly, letting it fall and pool at your feet, stepping out of it and moving closer to the foot of her bed. She gasps, she actually gasps, and her jaw hits the floor. Your ego inflates to the size of Texas.

Who knew seduction was so good for self-esteem?

“That’s from … the mall the … you bought it.”

She’s adorably flustered, blushing deeply, stumbling over her words. The camera goes down on the nightstand.

“I did,” you nod. “I’m all yours.”

“Holy fuck …” she breathes, eyes raking up and down your body, not sure where to look.

You can’t help but laugh, and then, just for the fun of it, you adopt your best Marilyn Monroe voice, “Happy Birthday, to you,” you say, with a wink.

“You look amazing,” she declares, scrambling forward, eager, until she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, legs dangling. “You always look amazing, but now you look amazing-er … or something,” she amends, raking a hand shaky hand through her hair. “You did all this for me?”

“Of course,” you nod, straddling her and sinking down. Then, you reach for her hands, guiding them to your hips. She looks up at you in disbelief, like she wonders if this is a dream. “Now you get to open your favourite present.” A dramatic pause, as you thread your arms loosely around her neck. “Me.”

“You know,” she muses, her own hands sliding down, rounding your ass and squeezing. “I think this is my favourite present ever.”

“Oh really?” you ask, trying your best to sound innocent while you grind your hips down against her. Another gasp. “I think so too,” you nod, capturing her lips in a heated kiss.

She moans into your mouth when you keep kissing, slow and teasing down her neck – you’re desperate to rush to the best part of this where you’re naked, hands and mouth all over her, but this isn’t about rushing, it's about adoring her and showing her how much you love her. Making love, not fucking. There’s a difference, she’s taught you that.

You slide your hands downwards, pushing her square in the chest down on the mattress. She falls easily, her hands dropping to her sides. She rests on her elbows watching you and you like it. Wordlessly, you reach behind, unhooking your bra, making a show of taking it off. You look down at her and smile.

“You’re so beautiful,” she says, dreamy and awed, hands reaching up to touch you, her fingertips skating over your chest, palming your breasts, dropping down to your stomach.

When you lean down to kiss her again, slowly, deeply, your fingers curl around the hem of her shirt and push it upward, hands roaming underneath. The moment you break for air, she lets out a deep, content sigh. You took a risk, giving yourself to her like this, but she’s giving something too. She’s never relinquished control like this before.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper, softly in her ear as you drop more kisses along her jaw. “I love you,” you add, without thinking.

It feels right.


	5. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While at the Valentine’s Day dance, Karma makes a life-changing decision about the future of her relationship with Amy.
> 
>  
> 
> _“You’re not as under the radar as you thought.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8128042/chapters/18632890). So here it is folks, the final chapter! Sorry it’s taken me longer to post it than I originally anticipated. Your love and appreciation for this story never fails to surprise me, thank you. In addition to being really fun to write, this story has also been an exercise in style and discipline. Brevity isn’t something I’m naturally good at, so working in this way has been hard, but rewarding. I’m really happy with the results. I hope you are too. Chapter prompt: _“I believe in you.”_

There’s no one else in this gym but Amy.

Well, that’s not actually true, there are hundreds of people crowded in here, dancing badly while you sing (not badly), surrounded by Pepto Bismol pink heart decorations, bathed in the of a mirrorball. It’s the Valentine’s Dance, you’re not with Amy, but you’re not even sad about it, even though it means you’re standing on the sidelines. Lauren happened to catch you right after _that_ argument with Amy. Back then, you didn’t care about the dance or the fact Lauren was treating it as a dry run for prom, because you had no real interest in standing (or dancing) in a room full of your romantic past, or, the _ghosts_ of your romantic past. OK so Felix, Dylan, Regan, and Sabrina aren’t even _here_ , and whatever you felt for Liam is completely dead and buried, but on that afternoon, those ghosts loomed large and you were easily haunted.

OK, you’re a _little_ sad about being at the dance but kind of not being. You’ve had all the good parts, drinking mocktails while everyone got ready at Amy’s. Shane oversaw everything, alternating between hairspray, perfume, and curling irons until Noah showed up and came to the rescue. Amy let you curl her hair and do her make-up like always, but you got a ridiculous thrill out of putting on her lipstick – a glossy red you and Lauren coaxed her into – knowing that you’d be the one to kiss it off.

She didn’t want to come, because she still hates dances and is “vehemently opposed to the commercialisation of love.” That, and the fact she’d be going to a dance where she couldn’t actually dance with you. If you hadn’t persuaded her with lots of innocent lash batting and much _less_ innocent kissing, she’d still be in her Netflix cocoon. For someone who hates dances so much, it seems like she’s having a pretty awesome time now Shane’s talked her into dancing with him. They look like complete dorks compared to everyone else, and totally _not_ like they’re the stars in the ending sequence of their very own teen movie. That prize goes to Liam and Lauren and their _nauseating_ PDA. If you didn’t like them so much as friends, you’re pretty sure you’d hate them as much as the group of girls glaring at them from near the punch bowl.

You get the best end of the deal, you have a view of everything from your spot on stage.

You look good and you sound pretty good too; you’re even sharing the singing duties with Libby Douglas. She’s forgiven you for the Juliet thing, and all you needed to do was let her sing a lot of Fifth Harmony songs and take the lead when you covered Little Mix’s ‘Love Me Like You.’ Singing backup also meant you could send Amy flirty glances. It’s a win-win situation.

Right now, you’re coasting through this Taylor Swift song, because you’ve sung it so many times. Honestly, ‘Love Story’ is a classic, and it’s kind of your jam now. It’s totally in your wheelhouse, and you love how it shows off your range. The key change is coming – the E major that Libby can _never_ hit – and you have to get it, because Amy’s watching you, gazing up at you adoringly, arms up, swaying with Shane hugging her from behind and beaming at you. She looks gorgeous tonight, and you’re so glad you and Shane managed to coax her into the dark long green dress she swore she couldn’t pull off. Newsflash: she _so_ can. You hit the note, holding it longer and letting it soar. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Noah smiling at you, proudly. Without thinking, you touch the new necklace you’re wearing – a present from her – an ornate key pendant. You’ve only been wearing it for a few hours, but it makes you feel close to her.

No one else knows that it’s connected to the heart pendant she’s wearing tonight, assuming she’s just wearing it for the valentine’s connection. She said she didn’t want to get split pendants this time, but she wanted something you’d both know the meaning of without it being obvious to other people. Secrets can be good things. Just like the candy grams you sent to each other with stars on the tag, so it’d stand out from the others you got (though you’re sure they’re from Shane, Noah, and Blake for fun). You promised each other these would be the last presents you share in private. Doubling up is getting difficult and tiresome, just because you put so much thought into gifts for Amy, and she finds all these beautiful things for you, and it’s lovely, but the second you open them, you want to show them off, proudly, to everyone. But you can’t, you have to keep hiding them in plain sight.

You’re not as under the radar as you thought.

When you reluctantly turn your attention from Amy and Shane, Blake catches your eye and holds up his punch cup in toast. An hour ago, when you and Amy sneaked out to get away from everyone, he busted you kissing under the trees on the quad when he came out for a smoke. Busted sounds dramatic, but it really wasn’t. Months ago, the thought of anyone finding you like that was terrifying, but when it actually happened, all you felt was relief. You didn’t pull away from Amy like magnets repelling. You didn’t run back into school in blind panic with Amy chasing after, you didn’t even plead with Blake not to tell. In the end, all you did was laugh, and smile shyly, turning into the safety of Amy’s embrace when she said “what up, Bradford?” and he winked, wistfully announcing that the play should really be called “Rosaline and Juliet now” and that your secret, thinly-veiled as it is, would stay that way because “no one believes a stoner anyway.”

Just remembering his complete non-reaction is making you bold, threatening to end the fragile peace you and Amy have found. That boldness makes you just want to announce it to the gym, right now. Fuck what they all think. Fuck Karmy. Fuck secrets and sneaking around. Fuck. Faking. You can feel it now, blooming, snowballing inside you, bigger than the swarm of butterflies that settle in your stomach whenever Amy walks into the room. When you step off the stage and pass the mic to Libby with a smile, that longheld confession almost bursts right out of your mouth.

You hold it, hold it, hold it, as you weave across the gym toward Amy and Shane, squeezing past what feels like thousands of dancing couples, interrupting them with careful “excuse me’s” and “sorries” and trying to avoid their death glares. You’re not sure what you want to say when you finally face them, or even if you should say anything at all. But then, without thinking, what you’ve really wanted to say pretty much after the first month of faking was over, falls right out of your mouth the second Libby starts to sing some Colbie Caillat.

“I don’t want to fake it anymore.”

Shane and Amy exclaim, “What?!” at roughly the same time in two very different, and very loud pitches.

Amy gapes for a second, shocked like she’s been slapped or doused in cold water, blinking back silent surprise. It’s not quite a record scratch, but it feels like one. For a moment, nothing seems to happen. Libby is still singing, the band is still playing, the world is still turning. Somehow.

“I don’t want to fake it anymore,” you repeat, uselessly. “I’m tired of hiding, I know you are too. I want to dance _with_ you instead of next to you!”

“I knew it! I knew it!” Shane cries dramatically, pointing. “Lauren,” he calls even louder, “I fucking told you!”

On cue, pushes through a group of other students, Liam tagging obediently along, and she just _looks_ at you, smirking like she knew this exact thing would happen all along.

“Told you!” Shane says again, elbowing Lauren in the side.

“Well done, Captain effing Obvious,” she replies, dryly. “For the record,” she begins, eyeing you and Amy in turn, “you both _suck_ at being discreet.”

“Who …wait, what are you talking about?” Liam asks, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Keep up,” Shane swats him. “They’re faking being friends. They’re fucking!”

At the use of the word ‘fucking’ you flinch. Insulted somehow. It isn't that at all. This is exactly what you didn't want to happen. This is what _Amy_ didn’t want to happen.

Then, it gets worse.

“Karmy is real, we’re all saved!” Lauren replies, with a smirk.

If she wasn’t Amy’s sister, you might kill her. Right now. Go all _Carrie_ on her in front of everyone. You whirl around, seeing the moment the penny drops. More people are listening in now, whispering with some whoops at the mention of ‘Karmy,’ threatening to derail Libby on stage. That snowballing effect is happening again, except the feeling isn’t so good this time, and those butterflies feel like they’re suffocating you. Poisonous.

Amy hasn’t said anything at all.

Suddenly, you feel sick. Your stomach turns, growing hot as you feel attention really start to turn toward you both, drawn by Shane, and Lauren, and Liam. They’re talking about you, but you can’t really hear them, catching little snatches about “Karmy” and “hooking up.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

When you turn to face Amy again, she can barely keep from smiling. Wordlessly, she grabs your hand and leads you from the gym, cutting through the watching crowd and coming to your rescue. Again.

The sound of the gym doors slamming behind you seems ridiculously loud.

“Please don’t hate me!” you blurt out as she bundles you into the girls’ bathroom, pushing you forward, her hand resting on the small of your back. “I just … I just needed to say it, I couldn’t do it anymore … I don’t know it felt like a good idea because Blake was so cool with it, but then Shane and everything … ” you babble, wheeling around in panic.

Your heart is in your mouth for all the wrong reasons, jackhammering out of your chest.

“Karma, Karma,” she starts, reaching out to still you. “It’s OK. It’s OK,” she assures, trying to catch your eye and calm you down.

“I’m so sorry, they’ll never leave us alone. I’m so stupid …   _Fuck_ , I screwed everything up!”

The fear in your voice echoes off the tile, coming right back at you. This is everything you imagined, but worse.

She grabs you then, kissing you hard and fast, her hands framing your face. It’s the full-stop to your rambling. For a second, everything is perfect. You mind clears. None of it matters. It doesn’t matter that everyone knows now, or that you hovered by the door of the room where GSA meets on Tuesday lunchtime, still feeling like no part of the acronym fitted you even when Noah waved his encouragement for you to come inside. None of that matters, because you love her. You. Love. Her.

“You didn’t, Karm,” she says softly, stroking your cheek. “You really didn’t. I’m proud of you.”

Your reply of, “Why?” slips out before you realise.

“Because,” she begins, stepping back a little, “I know how hard it’s been for you. I hated faking and it was so hard, but I also hated all the gossip and I just wanted to protect you from it until you figured it all out.”

You’re a long way from the parking lot, you’ve known that for a while now, but until she said it, you didn’t realise how far.

“You think we can do this?” you ask, quietly, half to yourself, half to Amy. “For real, I mean.”

“Do you want to?”

There she is again, giving you space to breathe, just like at Camp Kichi-Wawa when you were nervous about doing more than kissing, but desperate to do more all the same. Sometimes, you have to take the leap.

You’re stepping off the edge now. Finally.

“Yes,” you smile, shyly. “Yes,” you repeat, louder and more confident. The smile that blooms on her face, full and bright, mirrors your own. “I think I’m ready. I can do this, I can be who you want. The girlfriend you deserve.”

She sighs, looking at you with such tenderness that it hurts. “You already are,” she says, tears filling her eyes. “I believe in you,” she’s smiling again despite herself, pulling you closer, punctuating her words with a gentle kiss, “I believe in us,” and another, and another.

You know she can feel you shaking in her arms, but the longer she kisses you, careful and slow, like you might shatter or slip right through her fingers, the calmer you become. She makes you better. She makes your world better just by being in it.

“We know how we feel,” she breathes, forehead resting against yours when you grudgingly break the kiss, “No one else matters, OK?”

It sounds like she’s saying it to soothe herself as much as you.

“I just, I want to be able to dance with you tonight,” you pause, shaky again, the enormity of it all threatening to swallow you whole, “I want to hold your hand in the hall, and wait for you after class, and I want people to know how much I love you. I want more than hooking up in the closet too.”

It took you so long – too long – to realise that, and it almost cost you everything.

“Oh, Karma …” she smiles, still somehow on the brink of tears. So are you. “You will get more. We can go right back in there now and dance to whatever crap Libby is singing, and they can all look and gossip because I don’t _fucking_ care!” she laughs a little and you can see a glint of defiance in her eyes now. “I have you, and that’s all ... “ her voice cracks, heavy with emotion, “that’s all I ever wanted.”

“I know,” you reply, shyly. “I know.”

You can do this. You can go in there and have the dance you’ve wanted all night, and you’ll get to look at her, watching the patterns of light made by the mirror ball still spinning over your heads, knowing you’re with the most beautiful girl in the room. No more faking, no more hiding. If they don’t like you for who you are, fuck them. Fuck all of them. When you hold your hand out for Amy to take, it feels like a huge thing. She looks down at it, smiling again, lacing her fingers easily with yours. For the first time, you’re taking control of your own life and your own happiness, and you have Amy to share it with.

That’s what matters.


End file.
